Whilst This Machine Is to Him
by forthegenuine
Summary: He resolved that falling was easy enough––he had done it before. He caught her lips with his. And the question of whether Molly would follow was answered when she curled her arms around his neck and kissed him back.


**A/N** : I started writing this before the latest series aired, but given the turn of canon events, I'm just going to live in this little divergent world thank you. I wish us all luck tomorrow!

"'Thine evermore, most dear lady, whilst  
this machine is to him…"  
–– _Hamlet_ (II.2), Shakespeare

* * *

Sherlock stood in front of the door, immobilised except for his eyelids blinking faster than their normal rate and his fingers absently tapping at his trousers, his arms hung loosely at his sides. He thought back to when he hastily took off from the crime scene earlier, bribing the cabbie a hundred quid to bring him to his destination at a speed that broke more than a few traffic laws.

Now, he found himself staring ineffectually at Molly's door, the sound of his heart drumming unusually loudly in his ears. His brain had apparently decided it was a good time to abandon all executive functions, though, he did vaguely toy with the idea of picking the lock.

It was late, and he guessed that the flat's occupant was probably already asleep by then. She'd had a long day, after all. They both did.

 _shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh_

The last time he laid eyes on her, he stood in a sea of flashing lights from police cars, eerily illuminating the foggy London night. He scanned the scene for her until he found her sitting in the back of one of the ambulances, wrapped in a bright orange blanket, while an officer spoke to her. He made his way to her, winding through the small fleet of police cars parked on the street, so that he stood several paces away from her.

She turned her head toward his voice when he called her name. A look of relief washed over her face. He let his eyes drink in her person. He wanted to take her hand by the wrist and feel her pulse threading under his fingertips so that he could reassure his brain that his ocular nerves were intact.

Sally Donovan, whom he hadn't realised had been the officer talking to Molly, broke the silence. "All right there?" He noted his usual nickname was missing from her inquiry, but he didn't point it out. He simply nodded in the affirmative, his eyes never leaving Molly's face. He didn't notice the sergeant slip away to give them privacy.

Sherlock catalogued Molly's form, ascertaining her injuries. He could see a bruise had formed on her forehead above her right eye, and a cut bloodied her lower lip where Moran had––

"There you are," interrupted a voice. Sherlock looked up to see Lestrade advancing toward him. "Look, we need to get that statement from you, Sherlock. Might take a while." Sherlock wanted to protest and remain with Molly, but at least the detective inspector had the decency to look apologetic. Before he could respond, he heard another familiar voice call out.

"Sherlock!"

He saw John and Mary hurrying in his direction. They must have received an urgent call to arms, from the looks of their alarmed faces and hastily donned coats and scarves. "Greg called us," John explained, a bit out of breath. He nodded at Lestrade in acknowledgment.

Mary strode next to him, and touched Sherlock's arm, "Go on. We'll stay with her."

He nodded at her and gave both Watsons a grateful look––and Molly a lingering glance––before letting himself be dragged away by Lestrade.

The inquiry took nearly two hours, and by the time he was released, Sherlock had received a text message from John, saying that he and Mary saw Molly home safely. He wanted to fire off an aggrieved and rebuking text to John, but knowing Molly, she was probably very insistent that the couple return home to Rosie. His mobile dinged again, with a text from Mary, confirming his speculation.

He acquired a cab, but––not really knowing why––did not give the cabbie his Baker Street address.

 _shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh_

Staring at the door, he realised he didn't really think through what he would say to her. The last time they spoke, he believed there was a possibility it would be the last time he would see her.

 _shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh_

He managed to release her from Moran's clutches, and they ran. They sprinted blindly through the dark, abandoned warehouse––a detached part of him thought that _of course it would be a dark, abandoned warehouse_. He held on to Molly's hand so tightly that he was faintly concerned he was cutting off circulation. He found an empty storage container unit for her to hide in. The gun tucked in the waistband of his trousers felt heavier with each moment. He shoved his mobile into her hands, and bid her to call Lestrade. Of course, she would have none of it, defiantly insisting that they finish this together.

"No," he said firmly. "You have to stay here until help arrives." And without an ounce of the sort of guileful manipulation he used to use on her, he added, " _Please_ , Molly. For me." He could not keep the desperation out of his voice even if he tried.

He did not miss the pained expression on her face when she deflated and whispered, "Be careful."

 _shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh_

Sherlock released the breath he hadn't realised he had been holding and raised a finger to ring the doorbell. After some shuffling inside, Molly opened the door. The sight of her––wearing a pale pink dressing gown tied at the waist and a pair of worn slippers, wet hair twisted in a messy bun, but above all, alive––warmed him. He had been unable to explain why he was drawn to her flat before, but in laying eyes on her again, things became a bit… clearer.

"Sherlock."

"I… I wasn't sure if––" His body was already half-turned in self-preservation, in case she wasn't in the mood for company.

"It's okay. I was just in the shower––"

"Shower, I know," he finished with her. He was aware of this habit of reverting to his old deductive standbys when he was nervous, and hoped Molly didn't find it as annoying as, well, everyone else did.

She opened the door wider to let him in, a good sign. "You could have picked the lock," she suggested lightly, as she shut the door and replaced the chain.

"I left my lock-picking kit in my other coat." A poor attempt at a joke, he knew, but at least it earned him a small smile.

While he removed his coat and scarf, Molly called from the kitchen, mugs already clinking as she asked anyway, "Tea? I've just put the kettle on."

"Please," he replied, following her into the kitchen.

Under the kitchen light, he was better able to see the injuries evident on her face, though they seemed less life-threatening to him, now that they've been cleaned. He moved closer to her until he was standing right next to her, and made to gesture at the wound near her lip in a wordless inquiry.

"It's not as bad as it looks," she dispelled.

He deadpanned softly, "That doesn't sound as assuring a sentence as you think," but his voice lacked the usual ire it carried when talking to other people. What he meant to say was that he was touched by her concern for his peace of mind. But the way she lightly leaned her cheek into his hand told him she understood.

The high-pitched whistle from the stove startled both of them out of the quiet moment, and he withdrew his hand from her face. Molly prepared tea in two floral porcelain mugs. As he watched her work, he remembered the last time he touched those hands.

 _shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh_

He was staring into the wrong end of the barrel of a gun, a Webley service revolver––antique, operational, and from this distance, lethal––from where Moran had knocked him on his back. According to his calculations, Lestrade should arrive in approximately eight minutes, and he only needed to keep Moran busy until the cavalry arrived. But the raving man, his eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets and spittle gushing whenever he pronounced hard consonants, was too crazed to make sense. Sherlock thought he might reposition both of them under the eaves where something heavy-looking hung precariously, and somehow create a distraction.

But Moran, who spouted his revenge and nonsense about Moriarty, was nearing the end of his maniacal speech. Sherlock watched as his grip on the revolver grew tighter, his knuckles taut, and finally his pointer finger poised to squeeze the trigger.

For a moment, Sherlock felt his stomach sink, aware that he had lost. Before he could even complete the thought, a gunshot pierced the darkness, and he felt his heart skip two or three beats–– _so this this how it ends?_ he thought. He was briefly comforted at how painless it was.

Eyes trained in front of him and wide with shock, he saw the gradual appearance of blood blossom to the right of Moran's chest near his shoulder. When he doubled over in pain, Sherlock saw Molly standing behind the other man, cradling the gun Sherlock had lost during an earlier scuffle with both her hands. Sherlock quickly scrambled to disarm the gun from Moran's weakened hand, and knocked him out with the butt of the weapon. With an sickening crack and decisive thump, Moran's body fell to the ground.

Sherlock walked up to Molly and took the gun from her. Her hands were shaking roughly now, and he threw both weapons on the ground before taking her hands in his. They said nothing to one another, and instead, let the sound of sirens in the distance echo through the empty warehouse.

 _shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh_

Hours later, the pair moved from her kitchen to the living room, and sat next to each other on the sofa. Sherlock ventured a glance at her and read the question on her face.

"I came to make sure you were okay." He continued slowly, holding her gaze, "And I also wanted to thank you for being––"

"Stubborn?" she offered.

"I was going to say steadfast, but stubborn applies." Molly gave him a small smile. He added in a low voice, "Thank you."

"You don't need to thank me, Sherlock."

"I know. All the same I––thank you, Molly Hooper." He turned his body toward her, and leaned forward to place a kiss on her cheek. When his lips grazed her skin, he inwardly savoured its softness. He tried to ignore the observation his mind instantaneously recalled that, without a doubt, it felt like the previous times he'd kissed her. He denied himself the memories of those kisses, for each of them came associated with self-loathing and regret that he'd rather not remember. When he did allow himself the rare indulgence of revisiting them, to relive the feel of her smooth skin under his lips, something at once leapt and expanded within his chest.

But now, only one thought occupied his mind, "more."

He watched her, her eyes half-lidded as she accepted his kiss, and found it incalculable to distance himself from her. A ghost of a smile graced her features when she opened her eyes and saw he hadn't retreated to his side of the sofa. He kept his face at level with hers, matching gazes, though neither of them moved. Time seemed to stop, as if both were aware they were at the very edge of a precipice that would change their worlds. It was only a matter of the fall.

Despite the sound of his heart racing in his ears again, he resolved that falling was easy enough––he had done it before, after all. He lifted a hand to cup her cheek, letting his thumb brush lightly over her skin where he had kissed her. He leaned in a second time, and hit his intended target, catching her lips––already parted ever-so-slightly––with his. And the question of whether Molly would follow was answered when she curled her arms around his neck and kissed him back, her mouth opening more fully to his.

She unwound her arms from his shoulders, instead, slid her fingers through his hair, working his curls and scalp. His own hands took a divide-and-conquer approach: one hand snaked to the back of her head to draw her in closer still, while the other circled her waist to pull her onto his lap. Their lips met again, more assuredly this time, and they simultaneously found their respective courage to make use of their tongues. She giggled at the sensation, and the reverberations of her laughter coaxed a grin from his otherwise occupied mouth.

Each contact failed to satisfy the voice that clamoured for _more_ , and instead ignited something immeasurable within him. All his nerves stood in attention, more aware of everything, and everything was Molly.

He let out a short gasp when he felt her suck, and used her teeth for good measure, on his bottom lip. She in turn let out a less than decorous moan when his lips and tongue found a spot on her neck, as his hand trailed in his exploration downward toward the loosening intersection of her robe. When she wiggled her bottom, he realised how rather uncomfortable he had grown, his trousers feeling a touch too tight at the moment. His mind now grew ever vigilant at how hard he had become.

Without warning, she planted both her palms on his chest and gave him a small shove. One hand was frozen in mid-caress of one of her breasts through her nightgown, while the other was in mid-stroke of her thigh where her robe had ridden up. For a brief second, he was jolted into horror as he feared he might have done something a bit not good. Molly, her brown eyes lively and her messy bun made messier by their activities, breathed hoarsely in a whisper, "Bedroom."

His mind––swilled and confounded––was unable to process so he asked dumbly, "What's happening in your bedroom?"

Molly laughed and kissed him quickly. "You great, silly man," she sighed.

They met under the duvet of her bed, pieces of clothing divested along the hallway leading into the bedroom. They began again, languidly kissing and caressing one another, until their desire was relit once more.

She showed him how she liked to be touched, and as she guided his hand, he thought about the persisting enigma surrounding Molly Hooper––one that presented itself years ago, when she tearfully asked him what he needed from her in the dimmed Bart's lab. He had locked that puzzle away in an air-tight vault in his mind palace during his presumed death, in the hope that it would extinguish on its own. But ever since his return, and afterwards the more he spent time with Molly, the greater the question seemed to stoke itself.

In Molly converged an exquisite paradox of emotion and logic, imbalance and equilibrium, that both terrified and seduced him. He decided he wanted to spend the rest of his days unravelling it.

When she came by his hand, he kissed her forehead, which had become dotted with perspiration. He licked his lips as she slanted her body and rose to straddle him. He began to marvel at her strength, her tirelessness, until she was fully seated on him. The sway of her hips drove him to distraction, and all thought and reason escaped. Only the feel of her skin under his fingertips and the sensation of her sheathed around him remained. When he came––graceless, breathless, and boneless––he pronounced her name on his lips in broken syllables, muddled by a deep moan. She kissed his forehead before sliding back down beside him.

With his last ounce of wakefulness, he gathered her in his arms, her sleepy head resting on his chest. As his heartbeat finally began to subside, he thought that though he was far, far removed from being a great man, that while he lived, his silly heart would beat for Molly Hooper.

 ** _end_**

* * *

Thank you so so much for reading! Kudos and comments are greatly (and gratefully!) appreciated. I'm also on the lookout for more Sherlolly blogs to follow (or stalk) so please come say hello on Tumblr. Cheers!


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